


As a Young Man

by schxbetta



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27377434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schxbetta/pseuds/schxbetta
Summary: This is a series of drabbles I wrote regarding Heidegger's history as a SOLDIER.At the age of twenty-three, him and a small group of SOLDIERs were stranded in the northern caves. In order to live, he must fight for his survival.I wanted this to be a darker take on Heidegger's history as a young SOLDIER working under Shinra. He's twenty-three / four in these drabbles and is a lot different to his older self, mostly because he's yet to learn what he loves and (mostly hates) about the world.





	1. Goodbye Caius

**Author's Note:**

> Caius, Seraph and Arlo are my own creations who feature heavily in this drabble. This drabble is set north of the Icicle Inn around Gaea’s cave

“Come on-!” 

Caius yells commands like its easy work, the words don’t fall from his lips - they fire like the bullets toward the rest of the men. Each and every one running into the line of fire with absolute certainty, Heidegger is among them. He follows the other men through the cave as if led on a string into the unknown. 

The materia caves aren’t anything he could have ever imagined, a strange mixture of colour encompassing their surroundings, ice that has long-frozen over the ooze of unfinished materia. The floor is slippy but not entirely unmanageable, luckily, the boots of their uniform grips it comfortably, even as they run. 

Heidegger turns his attention to Caius - who, with the sapphire of the cave reflected back on him has an ocean blue hue tinting the blonde of his hair and the ivory of his skin. He looks to Heidegger with hazel eyes - not that he can tell amidst the darkness of the cave, Heidegger simply knew the colour already. 

Caius is the only man in the squad who stands around the same height as his friend, he’s imposing, strong - a man unafraid to get his hands dirty or flex his muscle. Despite looking relatively similar to Heidegger in build, they’re personalities apart. Caius is well-liked and popular, a loud but kind man - the sort that could poke a bear but then talk his way out of being mauled. Over the years, from school to the military…Heidegger had come to like him. Hell, he’s probably his only friend. 

“Caius…we don’t know this place, we need to leave, we should-”

“Hey, don’t.” 

A hand hits the bare of his arm, those honey-coloured eyes (he said he’d inherited them from his ancestors at Cosmo Canyon) looking back at him as if by now he’s merely feigning the confidence he always seems to flaunt. 

“Don’t, Heid. Don’t do it-” he shakes his head, between them - a beg, one that the other men don’t see. “If you worry, I’ll worry.” There’s a slight upturn to the corner of his lips, a hopeless smile that begs for a friend. 

“Shit, you’re cold as ice-” his friend almost sounds shocked. Heidegger meeting him with a stare and a smirk that counters immediately.

“We’re in an ice cave.”

“Okay, smartass” Caius jokes “just shut up and follow me, yeah?”

Heidegger obliges. He lowers his head, eyes shifting to the ground before another hand smacks his back with a thud.

“Hey come on, guys! We’re the first to properly investigate this place so let’s investigate it! Odin, what’re you waiting for!?”

Seraph interrupts any moment that the pair can share - he isn’t a bad guy, Seraph. He’s just young and a little too hyperactive for the SOLDIER. He always smiles, seemingly no matter what the occasion. Even despite their dead friends that hang aside the cliff. 

“Seraph’s right. We’re here now. We should look around.” 

Cursing eyes dart up toward the giant that is Heidegger, Arlo’s gaze only softens when he looks toward Caius - there’s even a smile. He’d never grace Heidegger with the same, their relationship had always been sour, a bitterness existing between them since military school. Whatever, Heidegger always thought, I don’t care about him and he doesn’t care about me. So what?

Heidegger shakes his eyes from the others, a sigh heavy in his breath before he continues to follow Caius onward. Caius manoeuvres through the cave with all of the grace and delicacy of a tank - large hands scaling the walls as boots tread on ice as if it isn’t ice. Heidegger cringes every time his friend presses leather to crystal. 

“What are we going to tell HQ? That we got lost? That we meant to come here?” 

Arlo seemingly pulls questions from his ass, each one as stupid as the last - Heidegger doesn’t respond, it’s easier to pretend that the brunette isn’t talking. Seraph begins mumbling something about it being a conspiracy, they’d been sent that way deliberately in search of a ‘legend’…It was all ‘the man’s doing.’ Heidegger remains silent. Finally Caius pipes up, turning back to his men as if he’s schooling a class.

“Are you fuckin’ serious? We’ve hit a goldmine here, fellas. I know we aren’t in the best shape - I know shit’s gone south real fast but can you imagine the fanfair when we get home. The glory?” 

Perhaps his biggest fault - his ego. Heidegger can only meet the arrogance of his suggestion with a loud sigh, Caius seems to notice - and it doesn’t make him happy. Seraph cheers on the blonde, a nod and a smirk as he fist bumps the air. Arlo actually agrees with Heidegger for once, a soft sigh on the rim of his lips before his attention is caught by the depth of a cave not too far away.

“When you’re done beating your meat to the thought of us getting any kind of ‘glory’ for getting lost - can we please go down that way?” He points toward a segment of the cave that shimmers with the reflection of some kind of liquid - a pool of sorts though absolutely not water. “It looks different…perhaps it leads outside.”

“Oh-oh, okay, I get it.” Caius saunters past Arlo, a haughty stare telling a joke about the man’s seriousness as he leads the way toward the mystery lagoon.

Heidegger follows, worry pooling in his chest but his expression too straight to give word of it. Upon reaching the mere, he’s entranced by the hue of it - a shining dew of sapphires and emeralds and Heidegger swears were he to reach in, he’d probably pluck gold from its depths. Seraph leans over it, the blue of his eyes hypnotised by its colour. Caius and Arlo sparing it a stare as well before Arlo becomes seemingly distracted and decides to wander off. 

“It’s incredible…is this mako? Fresh from the planet?” 

“I don’t know-” Caius responds, both men never noticing that Seraph has followed Arlo’s footing down into the depths of a nearby (much smaller) cave. 

“I think…I think you could be right you know, about all this-” Heidegger looks up to him with serious eyes, the expression on his face softening when he properly looks at his friend. It always did - he could never eye Caius in anger or sadness for the man had been nothing short of incredible. The entire time Heidegger had known him, their status as friends had only ever been tested by the tension between them. Secret nights spent together, treks into the wilderness, knowing looks and subtle remarks. They knew what existed between them - nobody else did. “If we showed this to HQ, if we told them what we’d found…those men’s deaths wouldn’t be in vain. We could be labelled as heroes-”

“Right?” Caius presses a hand to Heidegger’s back, his hand and fingers putting pressure enough for the young man to know that his touch is more than friendly. “Think about it. We get that glory, we retire. Go to Costa Del Sol-”

“Retire? I’m barely twenty-three-” he laughs in reply, Caius merely shrugging his shoulders before a laugh escapes himself. 

Their shared moment of peace is interrupted by a cry, a wail echoing from the darkness of the cave - it’s deep, it sounds like Arlo.

Both men immediately spring to action, swords retrieved and wits about them as they ignore ice in favour of running toward the source of the sound. When they finally reach the cries, they’re welcome to the sight of Arlo desperately grasping at Seraph’s hands - the younger of the pair holding onto his friend with sweating paws. Arlo stands knee-deep in a dew of strangeness, colours consuming him as he struggles to fight its hold. 

Is this the power of mako? 

Heidegger ignores any thought in exchange for helping a man he’d never been able to call a friend - Caius joins in. Unfortunately for the pair of them, the pool of mako that sits on the edge of the cave’s exit spits and spews at them as if it had tendrils that attempt to reach and pull every single one of them in. Seraph is next, a large whip of Mako lashing at him, causing him to lose his balance and fall headfirst in.

“What the fuck is going on! Arlo, come on-”

“I can’t fucking move!” Arlo spits, Seraph’s desperate fingers now clinging to his trousers, doing well to pull him further in than out. Heidegger retrieves his greatsword from the halter on his back, he turns it the wrong way, gripping the blade with gloved hands as he holds out the handle toward them.

“Grab it!” 

Caius assists, his hands taking the weight of the blade and between the two of them, pain isn’t an unfamiliar feeling. The edge causes pressure on skin as Arlo grips its handle - his hands are desperate but the pull of the mako is far too great to battle. 

“Help me you bastard!” Arlo spits, his insults barely noticeable between Seraph’s screams - Heidegger would help him, fuck, he’d pull him free and then give him a smack across the chin but that isn’t happening. The combined strength of himself and Caius is nothing compared to the force of the planet - when the mako seemingly presses Arlo to Seraph and those insults become screams, Caius and Heidegger can only pull the blade free.

They observe as mako fuses man to man, but neither stick around to watch - the sight of bodies twisting and contorting a sight no man would ever wish to see. 

Heidegger instinctively grasps Caius’ hand, his grip firm on the other as they make distance from the horrors unfolding before them. 

“Come back-!” The remains of their friends beg, a voice now distorted and twisted by the dew they’d bathed in. Behind them, Heidegger can feel the eruption of flames and ice, spells cast their way in a desperate attack. 

“Fuck- they’re attacking-!” Caius’ voice is lost to the sound of lightning shooting forth through the cave, the pair of them manage to dodge it - but only because their grip on one another is so firm. 

“Come on, we must leave-!” Heidegger calls out, his grip on Caius noticeable by the pull of the man’s muscle - 

and then he hears a sword. The edge of a blade, a sharpness slicing the air, the sound of a whip cutting wind only interrupted by the heavy sound of a thud - a sword into flesh, the familiar sound that Heidegger has heard so many times before. He doesn’t look back, his hand continuing to hold his friend’s as if he’s heard nought. He can feel a weight unlike before now and as they make further and further distance from the beast - he can hear the moans and pained cries of his friend in tow-

no. No - this hasn’t happened - this couldn’t have -

free of danger, he turns to look at Caius, the sword jutting from the side of his back as crimson runs down the cracks between his lips.

“C-c-c-an we stop?”

Heidegger breathes heavy, his immediate instinct to remove the sword before Caius drops to the ground. Hands press on the wound, their medkit long gone alongside Seraph and Arlo. Desperate fingers claw onto cauterisation, his eyes are glassy and his mouth, dry. 

“Caius - stay still. It’s okay-” 

he summons a spell. A cure, once, twice, three times. This is easy - what couldn’t cure fix?

Caius continues to writhe in pain. 

Weak hands grasp Heidegger’s arms, the cold of his skin evident in the goosebumps on his flesh. 

“You always sucked with the cure spell-” 

there’s a laugh. A fucking laugh! 

“Shut up, Caius-” 

his words are a worried hush, firm but choking - tears already spilling from the rim of his eyes as if he already knows that this is a losing game. 

He calls it again. Again and again and again - the magic failing each and every time. His energy spent, energy he’d later need in the hopes of restoring his friend.

“Don’t worry about me, Heid-” 

Caius offers him a weak smile, a dampness now heavy on the gold of his eyes. 

“You - you’re - you’re-” he chokes, a cough of blood, red that stains Heidegger’s uniform. But he doesn’t care - he grips hands against Caius’ uniform and begs him not to leave. The chatter of his teeth stuttering every word, the bitter cold unwelcome grace. 

“Please. Caius. Please-”

“That aint you, Heid- you’re way more…way more - of a -” he coughs again, this time worse than the last “a hardass than that-”

The SOLDIER can’t force a smile in reply, all he can do is shiver and grip on to the dying man beneath him. 

Everything between them can’t be for nought…can it?

“You’re so cold-” 

his words bring a breath to the air, one of his last - 

with the last of his strength, Caius brings arms around his friend (and his lover), his hands are warm, blood pooling between them and with the final close of his eyes, he utters

“let me keep you warm.”


	2. Survival of the Fittest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everything that dies is dead.

“s̷o̶l̸d̶i̵e̸r̴ ̷s̶o̷l̵d̴i̴e̸r̴ ̴“

The wilderness brings him cold and sick, shivering within the confines of a cave that terribly enough reminds him of home. This one is similar to the Mythril Mines just short of Junon - the place he’d grown up…but this one is so entirely different. The hue of its walls shimmer sapphire back at the brown of his eyes. Unlike the Mythril caves, the monsters here are intent to kill and rather than there be the comfort of chocobo’s in the far distance or a safety outside, this place provides no such comforts. 

Icicles melt from above, sending harsh kisses of cold raining down upon him. 

Heidegger brings his knees to his chest, hands curling around muscle in an attempt to warm himself. Every time he releases a breath, it sits on the cold air before for him. Surrounding him, he can hear noises. Scraping claws and the howls of wolves. Further on, he can hear a creature lurking. Voices arguing, demanding, talking amongst themselves. The noises linger just short of earshot, enough for him to hear but not enough for him to listen. As if the beast whispers secrets to itself, Heidegger would never be in on it. 

The SOLDIER pulls himself closer to the wall, as if the shimmer of the materia cave can at all warm freezing skin. If anything - it gives him goosebumps. 

“ş̸̺͉̘͔̳̱̥͖̯͂̓̌̓̉̑̈̄̽ȍ̵͕̲̤̩̠͈͍̤͇̞̫͎̋̋̒͑͐̕͝͝ͅl̴͉͈̗͇͗͌̍̏̎̈́̆͛͒͜d̴̝͓̣̗͍̮̯̼̐͆̂͘͝ͅͅȋ̷̢̘̠͔͉̰̗͈̱̦͚̳͗̾̀̎̀̔̈́é̶̦̣͈͉͈̗̲̎͘r̶̛̲̗̞̹̪̬̲̥̙͓̣̃̍̈́͛̐̌̌̕ ̸̨̰̳̬͓͓͔̈͛̄̇͋̈̕͠͠s̸̢̳̼͎̐͋͌̇̓̽̐̅͘͜o̶͇͕̘͖͊̾̚͝l̸̢̟̮͚͖̱̙͎̇̿͊̾̕͠͝d̴̡̢̧̙͔̗̘̎̽́̉͌̓́ͅī̵̥ḛ̸̛̘͕̝̖̥̼̜̳̤͐̅̓̑̒̈́̏̓ŗ̸̢̨̨̡͚̟͔͙͉̩͚̯͌̀͋̉̒͐̓̔̇͒ ̴͎̈̓̓̉͆̒̂͗̚͘͝ä̴̢̛̪͖̠̳̙̼̠̩͂͂̎̾̌̓̀͘͘t̵̗̯̍̈͘͠ͅ ̷̲̯̙̪͉̗̤͚̆̓̄̋̿̑͌́̓͂̋̔̕ͅẽ̵̝̙̞̩̯̫̜̦͎̰̘̲̔̐̓͘ą̵̢̛̻̹͙̯̰̫͚̙̲̭͎̂̏̅́̓̌͊̏š̴͖̣̒̅̑͆͌̋̎ė̵̢͙̠͖̱̺̠͓̘͊́̆̄͂͘ ̴͖̻̟̦̳͙̞̎̒͑͋̊̈́́̓͠s̶̛̭͐̌͒̓̑̈́̉̿̓̊̍͝o̴͎̒̂́̃͐̅̀̅̏͐l̵̡̨͙̫̓d̵̜̹̣͉͓͚͈̱͕̮͇̲̿͑̂͌̈́̚̚͘͝ī̴̧͓͚̖̜̲͈̤̝͑͊͊̌͒̄̈́̿̌̐ę̸̹̪͎̤̲͎̹͎̉̍̌̐̒̾͗̓͝͠r̵̢̨̨̛̛̮̪̳̹̖̫͗͌̇̈́̊̃̿́̕̚“

Eyes raw with redness watch the darkness of the cave, how long has it been now? Two…maybe three days? His rations are running low and if he’s not careful, he wont have energy enough to escape the caves and make his way back down the cliff. 

The voices grow louder. 

ẏ̴̪̯̹̹̗͕̋̎̋̅̓̇̋̆̋͑̇̈́͋̿͂́ǫ̵̡̨̧͖̭͙͎͕̹̬̖̝̫̭̘͆̄̆̈́̾͊̈͒̊̒̎̽͊̐̚͝͠ͅư̸̧̧̟̫̪̝̯̹̙̐͐̈́̋͐̍͛̏͆̅̓́̚͝ ̸͇͔͔̙̺̖̙̖̹͇̱̑̾̊̒̋͗͛̃̊ͅh̵̖̣̮͐̆̾̐͒̇̑̃͆̃͐̐̏͝ą̵̧̧̼̹̤͉̙̩͈͓̖͍̦̭̬͕͎̳̗͕͓̇̿̅̿̈́̐͌̋̊̃̚͜͝v̴̨̛̞̫̬͇̱͈̗̐̑̿̿̌̿͊̈́͌̽̽̈͂̍̋̌̃̉̊̊̚͜͠͠͠e̴̢̨̠͓̻͈̯̳̣̤̰̲͓̤̹̪̹͙̟̊͂́̍͊́̀̽̈́̑̂̿͗̚̕͘͘͝͝͝͠ ̴̨̧̨̨͈̻͍̝̞͓͕̲̦̩̳̜̙͍̦͔͎̳͔̜̐̉̊͒͂̑͘n̴͓͉̑͊͝o̸̧̢͖̰͙̖̤̰̱̰̺̥͙̝̭͚̱̳̻̖̱͌̐͊̂͑̈́̎̈͆̔̿̃̇̍̇̚͘͝͝͝͝͝ ̷͍̞͚͎͗͋͂̃̆̄̋̚h̸̺͍̭̼͍̮͙̮̤̰̩̞̫̝̯͙̟͉̟̅͆̓̀̿̏̇̾̓ͅo̸̡̢̘͈͓̳͕̜̳͂̊̋̈́̐̅̒ņ̷̧̦̩͈̠̳͙̻̬̬̲̩͍̻̭̜̅͋͑̾̓͂͒̋̿̿̿̋͆ͅơ̸̢̟̣̜̤͈̱̮͖̮̇͒́̓̇̀̂̅͐̓̅͗̿͋̐̄͂̕͝ư̵̦̒̄̏̑͂̇̒̋͊͐̾̒͐͋͂̇̂͐̌͗̉͘͘r̷̛̜̲̲̪͈̤̜̟͚͜  
̸̨̥̝̲̱̩̩̃̈́̌͗ͅy̴̢̪̖̩͓̤̩̟̥̺̰̰͍̺̓̆̇ǫ̷̖̫̠̻̜̲̰͕̠̩̦̫̙̊͋̐͒̋̌̅̉͛̈́̿͒̈̄́̉͝͝u̷̡̡͖̫̞̘̜̥̮̫͉͔̠̳̙͙͆̉̉͐̄̿̕͜͜͠͝ͅ ̵͙̟̠̟͋̈̋̓͛́͊̔͆͑͂̉̅͌͠l̷̢̜̹̖͓̜̬̬̬̖͉̹̂̂̅̊͗̈́̑̈́̒͂̆̌̎̍͆͌͂̋̽̂̚̚̕͠͝͝e̴̤̮͙͉̯͖͕̮͓̯̝̭̘͆̋̄̈́̈̾̊͒f̴̧̧̨̡̡̛͎̤͈̰͇̙̳͖̫̻͖̳̱̼͎͍̜̥̜̆͛̈́͌͑̇̏̈́̕͠͠ͅt̸̖͖̠̘̞͖̹͐̆̆̈́̾̃̄͛̑̍̕͠ ̵̧̛̬͕͓̺͓͍̬̱̭͉̳͚̠̱̻̱͙̙̌̾͒̍̇̈́̃̍̉̐̓́̂̈́̃̓̃̉̒́̅̚͝͝ư̶̹̺̻̳̳͕̻̋̽̎͗́̐̈́̌͛͒̿͆͋̓̐̓̐̈́̈̚̚̕̚͝͝s̵̢͓̯̪̖͈̤̾͑̋̉̃̾̓̿̍̈́͝

By the fourth day, his wounds are teasing him with infection - the gash across his arm looks swollen. Unkind. The SOLDIER has to conjure a fire spell to seal it and purge any infection from his skin. It burns as brightly as the bonfire he sits near - when his skin melts, he has to stifle his scream with the leather of his belt. 

Day five brings critters - Ibiruheddos swarm his encampment, his greatsword is hardly effective against the bats and with reluctance, he has to use the last of his summoning power to conjure up a spell. Vicious Beta had burned them all - as well as his remaining rations.

Time to leave. 

Dragging his greatsword through the glow of the caves, the young SOLDIER would make his way past the spring and down toward an alcove - the very same where his fellow troops had fallen. Heidegger had not meant to run from the battle, he’d attempted to drag two of the men to safety but with the magnificence of the life-stream spewing forth around them and the anger in which the earth was shaking beneath their feet, he’d regrettably lost his grip and let them go. 

Watching them die is something he would never forget. Two men sinking into the floor, azure swallowing them, a glowing hue distorting their limbs. Bones cracking beneath the strain of magic and materia, elements combining, splicing - their bodies fusing.

Odin knows he’d not slept since finding refuge deeper inside of the cave. His punishment for failing to save them - nightmares, forever more. 

Heidegger eyes the close distance, darkness drawing him in, his heart beating with every step. Voices grow louder, soft whispers that butt and bounce off of one another.

‘̴̢̫͙̟̻̞̳͎͙̭̹̙̾͊̽͋̈́̑͜w̷̢̨̢̥̤̼͈̻̗̙̑̐̇̍͛̿̍͗̌̓̎͘͘͜͠h̶̫̖͖̭͍̗̘͊̐̂̀̑͜ͅẏ̴̢̨̠̮͇̖̳͉̞̟̙̲̮̣͑̍͐͝͝͝ͅ ̵̨̲̈́̒̽͛̍͌͠͠͝d̵̥̹̦̘̖̈́̓̏͂̅͝i̷̧̨͈̠̦̣̪̥̠̲͚̗̿͌̈́̒̌̆͋́̄̾̂d̷̰͕͍̥̺̻̣̺͕͓͓͛̓̂͐̽͜ͅ ̵̛͎̝̖̩̫͓̳̹͔̝̣̝̼͌̇́̌͗͝ͅh̸̲̺͉̀ë̶̪̟̬̼̭̦̹̯̮́̾͊͊̚̚ ̴̞̫̱̩͓̲̹̯͕̹̺̈͒̌̃͂̽̚l̵̲̳̭̾̄͝ë̶̢͓͈̺́̊̓̒͛͗̎̄͠ä̸̡͉̩̖͇͔́̈̇̾̌͜͝͝v̷͖̳̩̳͓̳̬̯͖̠̬͊̉̂͆̌̍̄̍̅̍̽͂̏̒͜ͅę̶͇̟̇̽́͂͗́͛̂̕ ̸͎͖̱̘̣̭͔̠͔̤͔̚u̵̧̲̹̪̫̫̱̔̓̇͛̾͆̃ş̵̟̫͚̦̺̤̖̥̹͈͚̱̆̉͒̌͌̅̾̕ͅͅ?̵̫͕̤̯̗͕̭͇̣͉̑̆̉̊͜’̶̢̻̾̒̀̌  
̸̧̳̮̍̄̊͌͆̇̉̕ͅ  
̵̲͈̜͈̗̩̟͖͉͚̠̮̙̼̩̽̀̎̂̕‘̵̢͓̲̭͕̠͕̯̲̱͑̅͗̈͝h̴̡͇͚̠̬̳̪̃̐̓̽͘͜͝e̶̞̟̺̣̬̤̘̺̟͖͉̼̜̽̅͋͆̌͝ͅ ̸̣̼̖̓̇̏́͒͘g̷̛͖̤̻̤̍̈́́ö̷̥̺͈̲̹̬̱̘͔̜͚̤̾̉́̏̓̀̿͗̓́̕̕͠ͅt̶̡̛̻̜͓̞͓̖͇̤͖̬̩̯̔͑̊̑ ̶̧̨͚͎͇̦̙̠͍̟̪̫͕̆̈́̏̋̕̕ͅȧ̴̳̳͖͓̘͕̫̜̪̫͓̬̒̌̿̈́ẅ̸̤͚́̆̍̓̃̾͝͠a̵̦̓͂̀́̈́̕y̴͓̮̲̫͓̟̜̱̤̦̹̋̈́̓͂̊͜ ̸͉̗̞̫̥̳̳̼̗̻̳̜̪͗̄̎̓̍̄̑̔̒͗̔͜͝͝ͅj̴̙͕̟͙͈̦̭̖̝͈͍̘̊̆̂̿̓͑̌̕ͅu̵̡̗̯͚̠̺̳̪͇̲̰̝̺̇̏̈́s̸̝͎̃̒̐̉̉̊͊͋͑̚t̸̢̥͈̩̭̓̅̿̍̉͑̽̔̏̍̕ ̴̧̥̪͚͍͙̯̲̫̩͔͙̎͛̃̈͘ͅf̸͈͈̲͓̞̭͇̺̲͚̋̈́̉̐̑̃̎̏͗͋͆̎̕̕i̵̭̖͖͙̗͓̭͖͔̫̻̦͍̩̓̇̐̑͆̋͠ͅn̶̨̘̮̞̝̜̆̊̋̑̋̚ḙ̶̙̳̮̘͓͉̜͈͈̭͋̆͛̓̈͑̈́̐̍̐̆̎͘ͅ,̴̬͕̯̥͗̾̂̌̔͌͐̅͝͝ ̶͇̅́̎̂́͐͂̈́̃͛̑̏͘w̵̧̡͇̯̗̫̙̹̖̖̻̗̭͎̓͐͘͘h̷͕̞̠̩͍͈̹̝̫͍̽̓͊̉͘ͅẙ̷̭̻͉͚̻̣͉̲͚̺̺̽̃̀̍̔̃̃̂̎̾̐͝͠ ̵̡̛̹̗̯̝̺͎̐̐̄͊̉̐̅̿̎͊̄͑͘͝d̴̛͍͇͈̺͕̘͖̉ͅi̴͔̓͗̈́͌̈́̎̚͝ͅd̷̯̙͎͈̹̙͚̻̞̤̭͔̪̹̭͊͗̂̔̌̈́ ̵̞͚͈͊̒̇̄̈́̎͝͝ḩ̶̠̞̭͚̪̥̀̓̒e̸̫̼͕̥̩̣͔̦̘͓͓̒̄̇͑̇̏́͜ ̵͕̺̰͍͌̆̎̍͊̽̃̋̑̋g̴͚͓̔̔̋e̴̢̥̖̥̣̯͓̒́̃̓̃͗̅́͘͘͜͝t̸͚̯̺̺̟̩̰̖̋͂̒́͐̿͐̿̾̌̚͝͝ ̸̘̹̲̯̖̞̙̺̭̖̲̲̹̣̫̒́̍̋̆́a̵͙̻̓̓̎̌͋̓́̍̽͒̕w̴̨̪̘̰̱͓̝̘̓̈̌̅̓̍̐͒̆̉͒̓̆̎̕͜͜a̸̲͒̓ͅy̵̩̤̩̱̳̝̙̓̇̅͋̒̉̊̈́ ̶̛͉̻͎͈̳͔̦͂̎͆͐̀͗͂̅̿̒̎̽̕j̴̟̦̦̪̰̒͒̓̈́͑̓̌ṵ̶̡̥͉̪̐ş̴̨̬͉̙̝̻̬̝͉͎̎̐̔̄t̷̢͔̯̟̤̗͈̲̲̝̹̄͜ ̶̜͚̪̖̤̭̹͋̿̆̋̌͌͗̉̽ͅf̶̙̬̪̝̮̤̞̫͇̗̈͛͐̄͘͜͠į̸̺̹͈̱̤͚̫̗̩̩̼̮͕̳̎͂̈͂̂n̸̫̪̫̝͖͊̐̆̂̕͝e̸̗̩̣̞̪̯͉̬͎͙̩̓̈̑̄̓̎̊͆̈́͜͠͝?̷̜͇̣͓̯̥͈̝̰̗̝̫̩̖͖̒͆’̴̧̝͕͕͉̮͍̪̬̀̈́͐͂̓͑̈̃̂̈́̎̈́͒̐  
̵̡̡̘̲͇̜̤͚̮̤͖͙̗̱͒͊͛̽͒̃̚ͅ  
̵̛̛͍̖͍̬̤͒̋̆̆͒̆̍̂͘͜͝‘̶̠̞̯̱̥͇̻͍̤͙̗̼̂̉̒̓̕̚̚i̶̡͙̯̺͉͓̩͚̩͑̊’̷̫̒̈́̉͑̅̃̈́͆̇̄̀̀̌̽͝ṁ̵͚͎̞͖̞̽̀̐̍̆́̃̈̌̽͒͂̍̈́ ̸̘̞̬̯̈́͆̆ļ̸̠̖̦̮̞̾̇̈́̈̇̋̕ọ̶͖̬͚̻̠͋̍̓́͘͝ͅs̴̨̰̟̼͓͗̄̇̎̈́̋̿̄̇̀̃͠į̵̧͎͔͕͈͔̙͚̺̗̽͋͑̇̒͂̈̈́̚͝͠n̸̻͕̂̃̆̈̎̈͘g̴̩̦̥̝̠̱̞͔̯̉͌̋͒̊̀͂̐̇̑͗͠ ̸̨̛͚̐̈̂͛͑̚͠m̷̩̰̩̺̭͙̰̻͇̲̳͓̏̈́̃̎̑̄̈̽̇̆̈́̈́͝͝y̸̤͖͚̼̗̖̦̅͜ͅ ̷͛̎͒ͅm̴̡̯̦̩͈̗͕̩͈͎͌i̴̛̘͆͐̓̄̌͌͗͒̿͒ṉ̸̓̀̏̈́̌̾̍́̿̍̈̈́ḑ̵̢̹͔̠͉̼̒̏͗̎̑̒̕͝ ̴̪̭͚́̑͑̅̌̓͊̊̓a̷̭͎͠r̵̲̟͈̲̬̐̌̈́̄̓̄͝è̸̢̡͉̹̣̰͔̟͇̌̑͑̈́̍͒̄̓̏̽͜ͅ ̸̺̻̟̝̘͚̞̪̻͓̅͛̈́̑́ỷ̴̞̙͍̺̤͈̠̇̑̆͂̂̂̔̀͘o̵̭̼̾̆̽̋͐̔͑̏̑͂̍͘u̸̧͇̰̪͉̥̝̰͍̱̙̹͍̗͇̾̅̊̈̍͌ ̴̨͉͎͓̱̤̞̉͒̂͊̍̈̎͐͑̐͘̕͠l̷̨̫͎̝͇͔̰̭̠̍̾̿̿̉̑́͆̒o̸̯̫͔̱͈͍̺̩̪̯͕̗̠͔͉̾̓̃̽͂͆͘͝s̴̗̎̑̿̍͐͋̋̍̅̾͛̚̚̕i̷̧̱̼̖̦̫͔̮̻̮̥̳̠̪̐̐͊̅̈́͊̽͘͜͝͝ñ̵̢̧͔͙̭̘̻̗͇̯̲̬͓͉̅̅͂̋̂̋̆͝͠g̷̱̮̩͍͇̣̟̤̗̮͖͙̒͑͂̇̓̒̋̓͜͜ͅ ̷̧̛̟͇͕̪̺͖̬̩̬̳͖̫̃́̒͐ỳ̶̧͎̯̣̪̬̹̟͉͝ō̶̥̭̹̙̙͂̋ǘ̵̥̫͉͉͇̯̰͎̘̹͙͂̆̾̚r̸̭̆̊ ̴̛̛̫̥̬̦͆̅́́͗m̵̨̘̘͚̺̯̺̐͛͂͗̈́͜͠͝ī̶̢̖̃͑͘ñ̴̨̨̥̜̰̯d̴̢̛͚̫̬̋̉̌̅?̵̣̟͔̖̹̰͉̤͓͙̮̓͐́͋͆̍̆̾͆̚’̵̝͕̟̈̓͝  
̶̧̧̨̜̟̲͕̤̫͈̱̰̣̏͂̅̽̌̿̇̈́͒̉͊͒͛̒͘  
̵̢̪̩͙̙̰̜̟̻̔̊̽̿̏‘̶̛̳̥͍͇̩̀̍̕̕͜î̸̧̡̛̩͇̰̰̱͎̪̤̦̖̼͇̟̓̂͐̿̀͆̾̔’̸̡̦̲͕̦̪͚̜̣͖̰̄̇͒͊̽̈́̊̿̈̏̂͘v̵̧̳͚͓͒̽̏̇̋̑̃͆͂͘ȩ̶̻̜͇̪͍̮̘̹̪̒̑̇̈́̓̓͘͝͝ ̵̯͋͛̾͑͑̓͌̾̿͘l̷̨̝͙̫̪̳͇͓͔̭̗̝̊͛͂̈́͊́͆͠o̷̡̡̳̰̫͙̖̐͆̋̕s̵̨͎͐t̴͚̣̣̝͓̯͎̝͉̱͚̫̜̄͌̓̌͂̌͋̍̽ ̵̧̢͖̜̝̯͕̼̳̹͇̳̑̐̈́̀͘͜͜m̶̻̗̬̞͕͒͐̀̓̂̽̀̚͝ỵ̶̨͔̗͚̲̣̼̪͖̃̿͆͌ͅ ̶͕̗̔̽̋͆̌͛̽̈́̒ͅm̴̡̰̾̐̈́̓̒̏̐̿͌͝͠i̴̗̻̘̜̱̞͈͍̫̥͑̄͌͆͝ṉ̷̨̟̺͎̫̈́̈́̐̑̅̈̊̾̏̈́̇͜͝ḑ̴̛̮̠͚̋͊͛͌͑͛̔̑͝͝,̵̨̛̳̜̻̤̗͇̼͍̫̊̎̓̑͗́͐ͅ ̷̧̧͚̦̰̗̼͎̜͉͙͍͉͒̀̓͛͋́͊̿̓̏͋͊̾̚į̴͇͖͚̰̩̟̑̋̈͌̉̇̑̽͂̔̐̈́͠͝ ̷̡̨̛̦̪͎̦̭͔͇͚̜͓͎̹̞̍͂̔̑̂̾̀̽̿̀̓̂d̵̢̨̡̛̫͎̙͓͙̬͓̻̝͌̈́͐̎̃̊͘o̵̹̳̺͉̫̭̗̭͈̰̒͐̓͐̚ñ̶̢̼͇͕̲̻̲̹̗̯̬͈͑̇̏͛̀͊͒̋̈̿͘͘͠’̵̜̫͒̂͛ͅͅt̶̢̨͚̻͕̝͈̭̰̗̝̏̈̅̇̓̓̍̒̈̌̅̒͠͝ ̸̺̗̋ḳ̸̢̨̭͙̯̥͓̪̻̪̻͕͌͊̍̈́̌̊̍̅͑̂̾̊͌͋͠n̵̨̧̡̢̩͔̝̣̙̤̜͙̣͖̝̊͗͑̌̽̎͋̓͌̍̆͝o̶̹̺̼͚̯̿̄w̶̨̛̮͒̆͋̈͋̏̌́̚͝ ̷̥̼̾͊͠ẁ̵̙̻̟̲͕̪̙̗̣̖̲̫̗̣͖̿̎̔͌̐͐̌̒̈͝ḧ̷̛̪̜͚̰́̌̅̎̈̆͌͂́͘ę̷̨̳͓̟̦̘̩́͆͒̀͑̊͑̊̚͜ŗ̴̝͙̦̥̼̤̹̺̟͓͚̆e̶̢̞̲̦̫̘̅̇̉̇̓͗̉̑͋̊͐͜͝͝ ̴̢̛̛̥̻̥͇̺̩̝̱͍͚͙̓̄̉̍͐̄̈̀̈́̿̆͝ţ̴̠̹̍͊͐̉͒̐͐̏̚͝͝ò̴̫̜͗͌͛̚ͅ ̷͖̥̦͔̩͕͙̙̽̅̒̌̇̄̈̾̈́̆̏̑͊̚ģ̸̱̙̲̲̣̏o̷̢̨̳̼͓͎̻͆̔̍̍̓̈͋̽.̶̰̜̤̲͒̏͐̈́̏̂̀̍́̌̂̚̚ ̵̥͂̎͛̈́̓͛̈́̔͊̈́̚Í̸͕͖͖̘̃̏̈̕̕ ̴̢̫̣̠͚̦̪͎̗̩͎̥̊̇̍ͅͅw̵̧̧̜̜̰͓̹͚̟͛̎̂̉̀̔͌́͑̾̒͘͝͝ḁ̵̢̢̧̪̳̘͉͉̋̕ņ̷̯͚̪̗̙̼̠̼̟̈́̅̒̅̍͂̊̃̕t̵̩̠͖̘͖͙͙̭͓͚̘̖̐͊̇̽̏͜͝͠ ̶̡͎̟͎̣͓͉̞̋t̶͖̤̠̫͕͛̃̈̋͑̿̉͂̀̚o̵̢̧͈̲̳̠̳͓̖̞͐̾̏̂̅̓̈̎͆̂͝͝ͅ ̴̧̛̞̙͚͍̹̘͔͈̣͔͊͗̎ͅͅs̸̠͓̰̀͐̿̐́e̸̪̯̺̼̠̗͙͈̬̼̤͒̋̽͂͂͂́̌͒͊̎̇͝ě̵̞̗̱͇͇̌͒̈́̏͊̏̚͘͠ ̷̨̪͔̜̳̻̯̿̓m̵̡̢̫̩̠̝͎͓̫̣̯͉̲̉̃̄̏̐̅͐̕̚͠y̸̨̪͇̲̭͇͎̭̏̂̽̇̌̕͘ ̸̧̠̜̜̯̪͔̼̩̒̒̋́̾͋̕͝c̶͓̬̮̘͔̩͉̖̍͌͑̔̿͜͝ͅh̷̛̤̯̏̔̑͊̾̇̑̿͐̄̌̉̕ĩ̵͕̻̯͋͝l̷̩͆͛͒̂̿̚̕ḍ̸̡̟̖̗̰̫̳̻͚̼͖̍̈̅̑͘͜͝r̵̨̨͇͖̲̜͔͍̩̦̖̹̤͉̅̑̆͑͑͠e̶̛̩̜͈͇̪̰͔͔̜̫̠͑̒̋̃̕͠ṋ̸̺̾́̔̏̀̐’̶̨̛̜̞͇̺̭̥̟̦̱̬͔̄̋̐̅  
̴̨̣̰̜̟̟̼̰̘͓̙̗̠͒͗͌̊̊̇̇͜  
̵̧̡̨̢̘̬͔̦̮͍̤̫̬͖̆̎̽̅́̄͊̔̋̈́́̚‘̷̮̭̫͙͇͋͛w̵͓̫͕̙͎͖̝͖̻̬̠͓̻̍̀̐̐͜h̵͖̒̽̾̒͊̇̑̎̓͗͘͝ę̶̡̲̖̭̖͐̔ͅr̷̡̛̺̞͎̰̰̗̲͚̦̳̠͎̃̓̆͊̉̏̊̎͒̚͜ͅe̷̺̥͕̥̲͖͙͛͆͋̐̑͘͝͝ ̷̨̟͎̉̽̈͋͑̈́͜͠d̸̢̛̘̰͚̩̭̭̗̝͈̮̮̤̳͚̊̍͑̾͌͂̊̎͆̋̌̚̕͝į̵̛̺̹̱̬͒̉̃̽̌̌̿͝d̸̨̡̧̨̨̖̝̻̠̻̰̯͍̀̄̊͂̆̚ ̸̛̹̮͕̬̠̻̤̣ḩ̸̡̧̢̰̭̤̜͍̝̘̤͎̇̈́̈́e̵̡̫͔̖̤̯̣̻̼͆͋̅̓̏̆͗̊̋͛̉̓̓̚ ̷̮͔̣̟̗͕̲̣͓̜͓̦̫̥̏̉̓̔̏̃̀̆͐͝ģ̴̥̗͎̰̺̺̏̈́̽̎̌̐͘ơ̸̝͇̹͕͎̫͒̍͘͘͠ ̶̨̮̱̜̎̀̓ẅ̵͈͖̘̰̳́̆ͅh̴̛̭͓̣͇̗̤̤̳̹̏̾̇͐̔̅͗̇͝ͅy̸̢̭̮͎͉͆̃͛̔̂͌̎̈́̕ ̵̡̧̦̻̱̟̫̯͙̜̺̝͎͗͜ͅd̷̡̛͎͔̦̘͔̀͌̒̔̾̅̇́̃̄͂͂͘ỉ̵̛̞̙̪̙̬̺̘̠͕̟̲͖͕̗̒͛͛̇̅͠d̴̯͚̻̬̪̗̹̃̄̀͂̈́͆̈́͑͘͘̚͜͠͠ ̶͜h̴͇̺̜́̃̏ě̷͎̟̘͎͆̓̋̇̎͋̓͆͘ͅ ̷̪͋͋̋̓͂͂͋̆̌̕̚w̶̮̰̥̝̥̹̬̒̎͆̇̐̈́͂̓̒̇̇̈́͝h̴̛͎̞̫͓͇̯̦̯̦̜̩̼̊̒̅̓̕͜y̴͙̪͉͖͖̭̫̳͋ ̵̙̼͖͕̟̹̝͈̥̪̮͍̘͓͊͂̐́̌̔̒͑̚͜͝͝͠d̶̤͓̮̖͙̣̝̽̂̏̋i̴̖̪͊͛͋̈d̴̨͕̓ ̷̱͎̼̯̼̺͇͎̯̹̼̏͋̎̀̑͂͗͝h̶̢̛̛͂̓̈͌e̵̜̠̜̪̞̲̳̹͚͕̜͎̬̓̈́ͅ ̷̛͍̝̯̪̤̌̏̓̎͌̾̆̿̆̚ẃ̷͖͍̟͔͔̲͕͔̬̗͎̽͛̋ḥ̵̢̞̩̗̟̑̈́̾͑̍͛͌͘̚͝͝y̷͖͒̇̈́͒̿͊̅͒̈͂͐̽ ̵̛̛̫̻̺̞̹͖̭̯̾̍̂̂̂̿̓̕͘͝ḑ̴̡̜͇̩́̄̔̄̃̊̂̒͝i̸̡̠̱̹̪̩̠̥͆̏͑̇͠d̷̡̛͍̥͇̳̜̰̭̟̮̞̤̦̝͒͋́̆̎̀̔̈́ ̵̨̙̬̞͙̊̏̆̚̚͠w̶̗̜̗̣̺͈̪͕͉̣̑̓̊̐̈̌͗̈́̈́̋ḫ̴̡̛̛̮̼̳̖̲̪̓͗͌̌͌̾͗̈́̽͒͘͝ͅy̴̨̧̰̱̺̫̹̺̹̒͝ͅ ̷͍̼̲̌̓̓̊̇̅̍́̕̚͝ḏ̸̢͉͖̟͕̜̤̟̻̠͌̓̾̉̓̓ͅi̴̡̢̛̬̦͚͔̐̉̈́̈́͐̌̾̍̇̾͠ḑ̴̻̟̩̖̬̠̪͓̖̺̲̲͍̈́͛̔̒̌͛͂͠͠͠͝͝ͅ ̸̨̛̛̬͓̫̳̖̪̪̦̎̍̂́̆͆̅̒ḫ̶͈͇̗̠̤̫̦̞̦̝̼͓̹͌̀̓̈̔̈́̓̐̇͂͋̈́͐̍e̶͖̦͌̈́̍̋͝ ̸̧̛̳̼̻̰̣̫̯̩̦̣̘̘̥͙̓̓͛ŵ̵̜͇̑̊̐̄̍̄h̸͙͉̹͔̮̉͒̔̃ỹ̴͇͓͔̟͈̠̥̖̟͊̿̃̐̑͝͠ͅ ̷͈̙͍̞̭̜̬̎̔͒̊̾͌̋͒̆d̶̛̙̗͔̥̲̾į̵̧̛̛̞̹͇̦̫̻̺̌̒̈́̈́̉̐̿d̸̨̛͍̹͍̯͎͖͕̖̙̅̏̓͋̚͜ ̷̭̹͇̽̍̔̔̑͠h̵͇͖̦̦͔̜̫̉̅̈́͂͆̾ͅͅͅě̸͔͙̜̒͑̅͆͋̈́͜’̶̧̡̹͇̯͓̅̅̐̆͛̈́̒̿̊̿̐̍̂͝  
̷̨͚̙͈͇͙̎͛̓̀̏̉̕ͅ  
̴̧̛̠͔͎͔̗̼̘̘̌̃̈̋̂͠ͅ‘̴̨̨̣͇̟̖̳͕̤̹̦͕̪̇͆͗̅̄̒̈̒̍͆̈͜ͅį̸̤̓̅̓̀͐͊͌̆ ̵͔̦̭͈͍̹̘̩̺̉̑̕͝͝͠ç̵̬̟̞͇͔͓̱͙͔͒͒̿͒ͅȧ̶̗̓͋̆̾̓̾̔̎̍̔̚͘͝n̶̨̧̫͉͚͎͇̱̅͆̈̚͜’̴̗͔̕ț̷͕̭̮͙̐͊͜͠ ̸̢͚̩̖̰͚̤̬̦̄͌́̄̕͜ͅę̶̛̠͙͓̆̈́̂̎̍̐͋s̵͔͑͗͋̽̿̆̈͐͛̽̂͆̚̚͝c̸͎̱̤̟̝̟̩̎̐̐̍̂̂͌͊̈́̔̐̇̍͠͠a̴̢͈͉̬̦̫̔̄͆͠͠p̴̟̲͋́͌͐̂̊͂̈́͒͝ͅͅę̷̢̝̩̩͚̰̳̝̩͎̖͐̓̃͒̊͑̊͌̋͘͘̕͠͝ͅ ̶̧̫̭̫͉̻͓͎̦͌̓̇̍͝t̷͔̼̣̦̙̝͕̳͍̮̪͗̓̽͋̈̃̂̐̽̉̃̈́̕͜ͅh̴̫̳͙͕͚̥͚͔̪͈̖̍͛͊ͅͅi̵̢͕̜̻͓̯͚̯̓̃s̶̼̱̈́̌͗͆͛̾̈́͐̈́̾͐͆͘͝͠ ̶̛͈͍̠̳̯͎͓̺̼̺̙̫̇̾̋̂̕i̶̞̙̙̻͖͙͇̪̤͊ͅ ̸̨̲͉̮̹̙̒̾c̷̢̨̗͎̳͖͙̤̪͍̺̬̪̺̈̈́̾̌̈́͐̆̋̿̆͜͠͝ȧ̷̛̘̊̎̍͑̑̓̋̑͂̊̌͜͝n̸̨̥̣̥̿̆͌̐͒̍̃́̌͂̉͠ͅ’̸̧̛͎ṭ̸͕̖̤̰͙͕̻̜͐̓̈̊̾̿̾̑͒̀͒̎’̶̛͓̦̳̆̅̆̿̃͜͝ͅ  
̶̧̨̮̬͔̻͎͈̠̭͔̦̫͉̄͋͠͝ͅ  
̸͓͚̮̽͜‘̷̨͖̻̻͇̍ͅh̸̡͇͇̭̳̟̗̾̽͌̒̎̉̽͊̉̾̀̔̄̚͜͠i̸̧͍̺͖̠͈̹͝ͅs̸͓͚͓̭̀̊̿͘ ̷̢̢̗͓̣̙̥̤͖͈̾͋ň̷̢̡͈̺̥͚͔̻̹̤̎̂̃̌̄̇̄̕a̷̤͎̘͕̥̍̔̍̇̐̆̂̒́̇̈́̃̕͝m̷̡̤̭̦͕͓̼̔̋̌̌̿͊̇͊̇̄̅̊͛͘͝ȩ̷̝̪̜̲͖̝̥̫̦̲̣̖͓͊̓͒͗̇͂̚͝͝ͅ ̵͖̝͆̈́̀̇̐̄́̇̂̑̐͝i̷̧̧̜̮̦̟̙̩͍̟̩͚͍̪̊͌͑̐́̿̋̓̐͂s̴͇̱̣̤͈̤̠̳͉͍̈́̂̈́͋̅̊̅̂͜ ̴̛̱͕͂̏͂͐̍͒͑̿͝m̴̪̙͉̗̣̺͛͛̑a̵̢͙̬̙̝̱̙̺͉̙̗̪̖̋̑̍̔̀͑̌̿̏̕͜g̴̩͕̉̽̊͂̇̒̍́̆̀͘̚̚n̶̢̜̪͕̜̲̥̺̟̑̂ͅa̵̢̳̥̼̟̱͔͇̞̤̳͍͗r̴̡̫̱̪͔͉̭̥̼̣͖̰͛̌͊̏͋̄,̴̢͊ ̶̢̤̯̪̝̤̣̞̮̬̫̠̯̗̉̄n̴̰̺̬̝̮͇̠͓͇̟͍͈͊̉̉͜ͅͅo̶͎̊̓͛̀͂̏̄b̸̠̙̏̔̊̋̃͊̍͆̿̈̎́̑̕͘ŏ̵̱̻̠̪̮̮̟̰̯͔̫̜̂̄̈́͌́̈̑̓̂͘͜d̸̛̫̹̥̥̜̆͂̍̌̂̈́̒̚͝͝y̷̭̍ ̵̭̤͛̿͌̌͋̔̐̑c̶̢̭̱̜̭͖̼͖̜̦̈́̽̉́͛̏a̵͚̅͋l̵̨̛̠̞̭̦̜̜̮̫̫̾̎ļ̷̧̢̦̦͈̝̠͕̮͉̰̦̄̓̌̌ś̶̨̗̰͔͖̩̩̭͑͜͜ ̴͇̞͚͕͍̉͌̑̇̈́͗̿͝ḩ̴͉̜̟̥̤̞̯͕̾̎͂̋͆͗̋̇͛̌̓̚͘̕͝į̷̳̦̬̮̤͓̠̲͎̜̹̪͛͌̇̋̔̇̕̕m̴̻̼̤͕̥̩̪͔͍̯̬̜̹͓͐ ̷̢̣̬̳̬̞̜̠̟̔̌͋̚ͅm̸̢̛͙͖̖͔͚̅̋̀̈́͋̅̏̈̓̾͘͠ą̷̢͍͎͓͎̣̯̻̼̈́̿͗̍̊̌̌̀͝g̵̲͐̆̔̐̏̓͛̒͋͛̒̀͝͝ņ̵̱̙̮͚̥̮̘͓̖͔̜̬̗̑̄̕̚ȃ̷̧͕̪̠̙̘͆͂̑̋̓̚̚̚ŗ̶̟͙͈̣̝͓̹̮̻͗̎̒͗̄’̸̧̭̲̬̺̼̯̺̌̓̄̆̇͛̀̓̀͛͆͘͝  
̸̛̱̳̝̼̎͋͂́̐̈  
̵̧͇̹̻̰͆̔̒̈́͛͑̏̄͋̓‘̵̹̱̣̾̕i̷̢̛͙̟͍͐̈́̓͌̊̑͂ ̴̧̼̖̟̼̬͖̝̪̑͗͐͋̄̄̍̋n̵̹̮͔͈͎̺̫͎̑͛́̃͐̌͘͜è̸̝̜̼̝̱̖̏̏͋̆̎̎͘v̵̨̰̠͇͓̼̪̯̮͛̇̈́̔͝ͅę̸̭̖̱̥̥̼͓͇̪̽̇͐̐͛̒̌͐̈́̋͑̈́ŕ̸̺̪͔̰͇ ̵̼̜̟̰̥̓̑̆̓̎͗̈́̏̈͐̎͌̕ẗ̴͇̞̦̠̫͉̪̳̝͑̈́͒́͋͝ŗ̸̡̣̘͕̠̠̦̳̤̼̬̻̼̄̓̌̒͋͌̊͂̽͌́͜͠ų̷̛̛͈͚̹̬̺̱̱̱̖̆̅̃͂̓̈́̾̋ͅs̶̢͈̫͍͉̹̐̋̊̉̾̿̎͘͝͠ͅẗ̷̬͔̯̮́̈́̽͝e̶̺̖̤͉̗̞͇͕̠̱͓͎̖͆̃ḑ̷̧̨̘̹̮̭̱̔̿͗̀͠ͅ ̵̛̛̠̳͈̫̂͛̾͑͑̓̊h̷̛̛̛͇̠̝͉̻͓̺̞̯͇͌̈́͑̄̈͒̋̉̓͠í̷̡̨͓̹̬͈͚̗̩̥̪̤͗ṃ̶͍̩̩̬̾͂͊̄̊̂̄̾̾̌̍͛’̸̰͕̮͕̹͎́̋͋͐̃̓͐̓͘͘͝

His hand shakes, the blade jutting against the ground as he closes the space between himself and the blackness.

He sees it once more…but this time, things are different. 

Voices leave lips - two pairs, infused. Four eyes dart up toward him, a hungry gaze feasts on his fear. Bodies malformed and now joined at the hip trudge toward him on two wide legs. Their necks are elongated, as if possessed by Rokurokubi itself.

Heidegger freezes, but it isn’t the cold that holds him so still. Terror grips his bones, locks his boots into place against the ice and snow as the creature edges forth. Its words are human and yet its visage is not, any resemblance it once held to his former friends is now a twisted mockery of their features. 

“…what has…happened to you?” 

How could people be effected this way? Was it the Mako? Heidegger turns his attention to the walls surrounding them, a cave that flows full of magic and all of that had transformed his friends…

into this? 

This THING.

Horror strangles him, his breaths struggling to catch air as he takes steps back. The beast edges closer - talking back and forth between itself as if it really is two separate people joined unwillingly at the hip. 

ç̸̢̛̛̪̹͍̩̩͎̲͙̰̺̳͉͋̿̈́͒̀͌̊̐̆̑̈́̀́̽̾͂̽̑̆͆̄͘̚͠ͅư̴̢͓̯̲̼͎̝̓̍̉̆̃̉̌̈̀̇̓̃͑̎̄͑͂̈́̿͐̄̚͠͠t̴̡͚͖͎̳̟͈̲̻̦͈͉͖̼̫̠̺͉̰̺̹͗͊͠ ̵̡̨̩̟̰̼̭͙̥͍͙̳̘̦͈̠̮̰̞̙̯͍͐͑̂͐̋̈̿͑͋̍̅̌̈́̐͑͋͆́̚ͅͅų̶̡̡͙͕̥̲̱͈̞͍͖͕̙͙̙̙̙̭͖͊͌͋͊̕̕s̴̢̢̨̰̞̝͉̭̗͍̦͚̗̭̩̙̪̼̰̮͋̌͒̍̈́͗̕̕ ̸̛͚͈̖̰̩̞̲̱̩̜̩͙̯͂̔̌̔͂̇̾͒̓̋̅͆̔͊̏͑͆͝͝͝ͅͅį̷̳̯͔͙̫̙̖̳̲̗͖̯̀̽̈́͌͆̏̾͗͝n̶̻̟̩̞͚͂̎͂͂̉̏̓͊̈́̎͗̿̍̎̍̍̉̆͌̈͂̄̍͘ ̶̢̧̘̖̰͇͂͊̋̿̆̕͠ḩ̶̨̢̲̻̞̤͉͇̘̻̬̘̖̦͎̦̩͂̀͌̅̒͂͋̕ą̴̢̛͖̠̝̙͖̪̜̲͎̎̆̾̅̈́̾͆̇̂̾̇̃̄̅͂͌͌͘͝l̵͍͔̥̞͚̬͚͇͍̜̓͌͐͌̔f̵̛̥̻͕̥̖̐̾̾͗͆̅̒̐͐̒̈́͘͝ ̴̡̧̨̨̛̛̰̭͚̰̟̣̗̻̥̫̹̣̲̜̼̹̖̳̮͖̲̿̐̂̂̏͆̊̕͝͝͠ͅ  
̵͔̤̳͉̺̠͔̍͊̚̚͜͝ͅl̶̡̛̞̬͙̥̮̙̤̠̹͕͍̯͔̻̮̣̗͙̬̼̅̓̅̂̓̊͘͜͝e̵̛̛̞̺̻̺̠͉̹̬͕̝̞̟͎̪̖̋̐͑͐̍͋͊̃̇̂͂̄͊̈̌͜ͅţ̷̨̨̱͎̫̤͈̼̞̼̗̱̭̪͈͈͚̻͓̳̗̾̃̈́̐͆̃̽̈̊̈́̑̽͛͂͠͝ͅͅ ̶̧̲̤̘͖̥̜̪̫̹̣̻̦͓̱̙̰̣̩͎͎̼̹̅̾̌͊͂̅͋͠ḿ̸̡̡̛͓̻̠͕̺͔̪̮̲̦̻͙̝͕͎̼̭̙̜̙̳͕̲̇̊͂̄̏͊͋̽͗͛̍̈̽̃͆͛͗̏͗̈̐͜e̵̢̗͚͍̝̮͉̱̩̫̪̙̳̻̼̾͆̎͒̌̎̑̽͆̾͐̍͆̋̽͘͘͝͠ ̴̧̢̘̫̲̦̣͔̣̣̩͆̈́͛̈̔͊̌͂́̄̑̂̔̌̇̎̂͠͠ͅb̴̡̻̘̞̫e̸͛͒͗̑̊͂̒̇̍̆͌̅̕͝ͅ ̶̡̡̙̮̙̜̠̲̖̞̝̃ṃ̶̨̡̨̨̬̞̬̝͈͎̼̩̻̃̋̈͂̔̐̂͋͊̈́̑̾̚͘͝y̶̡̬̙͕͉̰̅̍̿͑͌̈́̐͆̓͝s̸̨͎̭̪̺͌͑͗̃̄͛̋̈́̓̉̍̊̊͘͠ě̴͙͈̗͇̗̮̽̕͝l̶̢̡̛̛̘̬͓̹̺͔̮͍̱̜͚͍̯̪̖̙̪̙͍̟̹̈́͌̏̓̀̃̌͗̾̿͆̀̽̾̄̾͂̇̔̚͘ͅf̶̢̤̼͉̯̗̫͉̤̥̩̺͕̹̤̯͓̜̳͂̽̔̑̋͋̅̓͛͆̽͊͛̿̎͘͜͝ ̷̨̧͍̰̙̖̩̯̣̹̝̯̅̋̐͌̈́̃̂̓̔͊͌̒͌͛̽̿̿̀̈́̈́͗͗͌̕a̸̧̯̱̯͔͈̼̜̺̣͕̜̬͖̝̣̳̰͈̰̱͈̤͕͉͂̌̀̈͑͑̿̉̇̈̓͆͌̔̑͗̕͘͘͠͝͝͠ͅg̷̡̧͈̝͉͈͇̙͔̝̘̘͎̣͓̱͎̬̾̂͆͊̓̕͘ͅȃ̸̢̨͕̙̻̺̳̫̥̦̝̞͚̟͖̼͒̀̈́͆̅̍͐͑̊̑́̄̒́̐̽͋͂̑̕͝ĩ̶̮̠̩͍͙͕̏̒͂̈́̇̈̑̇͂͛̓̄̈̃̈̿̾͛̌̕͝͝͝n̵̲͖͚̥̩͖̖̘̤̺̬͉͓̜̍̄̆̂̇̑͑̑͠͝  
̷̲̺̦̫̻͎͈̖̈́̿p̵̨͍̬͍̦̋̓̋̊͝l̵̢̮̠͇̟̹̭̣͔͈̖̯̠̳̦̙͖̩̔͂̂͋̌͛͌̅́͐͗͘ȩ̴̡̧̛̫̘̝̰̻̜̞̥͖͊͛͛̈́̓̏̏̈̌̅̃͛̃̒͗̚̕͜͝ͅȃ̷͖͒͐́̃͌̈́͋͑̇s̴̡̢͇͈̭̬̠̬̗̬̪͉̪̫̼̦̻̩͎͍̱̳̳͔̔̈̏͌̒̌̋͗̆̊̆͂́͐͊̏̅͑͋̚͜͝͝͠͝͝e̵̢͔̘͈̥̭̙̪̙͕̦̩̔̇͘ ̴̻͌̋̉̈́͊̓̊̆̀̿̈́̊͒͆͛̽́͊̓̚͠i̵̢̧̛̝͖͓̞̲̺̦̯̺̼̟̹̲͇̋̄̊̈́͆́̆̆̈́͐̇̄͘͜͝ ̵̨̡͈̤̖̤͍͔̗̭̜̭̼̬͔̰̫̠̗̈͋̾̏̀͗̆͒̌̂̓̉̕̚͠c̴̳̹̠̩̝̳̫̈́͗͊̄͒̄͂͜ͅǎ̷̧̡̡̹̱͓̯̞̤͕͈̬̫͎̤̖̎̑̃̈̑̍͗̊̕͘͠n̵̛̺̭̥̫̖̦̮̣͆̐̎͌͂͆̑͊̿͆͊̄̓̎̿͜͠͠͝͝t̴̛̞͔͈̥̱̥͕̭̠͊̈́͑̉̍͗̿͑͐͘ ̸̮͇̟̘̪̇̈́̉̒͊̋̂̎͌͊͋̚ͅļ̸̛̪̙͓̺̫̺̰̦͔̌͑̒̔̈̊̀͘̚̚̕í̵̙͈̫̯̗v̶̨͓͇̂̍̈̂̿̉̾̆̃̈́̃̈̕̕͝ȩ̴̡̨̧͓͙̣̝͚̜̝̞͖̞̹̹̮̺̥̠̦̖̱̘͈̽̃ ̴̧̰̬̫̠̺̣̻̺͖͓͎̖̏͌̐̇͊̂̓̾̉̅͂̇̆̄̕͘͝ļ̷͖̞͓͝͝i̷̯̘̫̻̗̟͚̗̞͈͖̲̗͕͗͊͌̈̏̉́́k̸̳̺͎̺͈̙̼̞̲̓̄̃̏͗̚͘͝ȩ̴̢̧̟̪̥̝͈̙̙͓̟̭͔̳̰̱̅͂̅͗̄̍̈́̋̆͌͜ͅ ̷̢̢̲̘̣̞̗͈͔̖̤̹̮̜͙̣̘̙͉͋̿͝ͅt̶̢̞̱̘̫̜̩̩̟͓͎͉̤̺͍̣̜͙͉̹͕̫̪͗̿̈́̋͗̿͜͠͠ḩ̷͍̬͖̟͈͖̭̦͉̈́̈́̒̈́͑̆͆̿͐͑̄́̈́̓̉̇̚i̷̛̯͔̰̥̠͇̣̠̠̖̭̦̖̩͔͈̻̩̦̟̯͎͚͕̽͋̎̇̏̆̇͌̃͒̊͜͠s̶̨̡̢̧͙͕̙̤̣̘̟̫͉̮̬͒͌͐̀̄̈͐͊͂͜͠  
̷͍̦̱̹͍̫̑̍̊͌̓̿̈̅̒͑͐̕̚̕t̵̻͑̅̈́̐̽̈́̔͗̂͆̓͛͋̚͝͠͝h̴̛̯͓͉̭̤͔̘̐͋͂͂̎̈́͒̽͛̈͗̌̔͂͂͊͝i̶̖̺͚̠̤̪̲̗͙̟̳͍̔̓̎̑̇̏̈́̀̉s̵̯̪̦̟̪̤̹͎̗̗͙̻͚̼̽͑́̔͆͗̓̉̒̎͜͜ͅ ̸̢̡̥͍̹̱͇̼̺͎͔͍̻͖̙̖̘̗̩̏̔̔͜ͅͅi̸̧̨̲̝̲̝͖̥̺͉̯̠͈̙̤̦̱̗͐́͆̑̓͒͜͠͝ş̵̡̝̠͉̪̜͉͕͕̺̠͔̺̅ ̶̨̮̝͎͉̹͉̎͌̃̓̉̽̑̊̔̓͑̃̄̐̚ȳ̴̧͖͍͇̦̫͖̪͕͙̝̮̰̩̩̎̽̄͂̄͌͌̇̉̌͝ȏ̴̮͚͎̘̦͖̱̃̓͛̾͛̆͠͝͝u̵̡̨̺̝̗̲̙͎͈̰͔̹͍̘͔̤͔̙̤͂̐͗̔̎̇͂̐̈́̈́̈́́͗̒͗̈́͒r̶̡̢̢̰̜̮̬̦̺͈̞̟̥̝͔̣̼̣̰̙̹̬̩̝̃̐̆͐͐̚͘ ̵̡̧̛͍͈̮̤̹̙̓̂̈́̓͝f̶̛̛̣͔̄͐̀̽̎̇͛̍̐̌̾̄̓͋̋͘̕a̵̢̛̦̪͔̪̳͔̙̱̹̬̟̟͈̻͕̜̝̭̺͎̥͉̲̒̒̒̈́̽͛͋̾͆̓́͆͊́͗͊̍̕̚͘͘ų̵̛̛̼̘̙͉̞͎̓̿̔͒̔̒̽̾̊̾͋͆͆͌͌̆́͘͝͠l̶̡̟̹̲̙͓̭̩̹͎̤̬̥͈̪̼̰͙͉̹̰̳̿̐͗̾̾̓̄̈́̑̓̓͆̿̓̂̏͘̚͜͠͝t̶̛̩̪̬͙̘̖̙̲̻̻̜̥̞̤̭̫̖̮̞͖͚̝͚̭̀͂̎̇̐̌̓̎͐͆̇̇̍̂͑̔̂͜  
̷̢̼̠̘̭̬̻̯̘̰̪͓͇̤͇̤͎͉͔̏̒̅͑̌͐̇͌̎̌̒̆̄͐̐͊͋̄̃̉̈̓͘y̷̧̧͓͕̟̤̫̫͈̮̜̭͓͈̹͓̖̙̼̥̮͙̎̏̎͌o̴͖̯̻̼͎̞̗͓̜̜̲̗̬͇̘͖̦̪̝̻͋̂̔̈́̌̋͗͋̃͛̓͒͐̀̽̽̐̏̊͜ú̵̡̠̪͖̐̔ ̶̭͙̗̻̬̠̟̟͂̃̎̂̊̅̕͘s̸̛̲̠̪͚̺̠̓̃̈́̀̌͐̽̈́͘ơ̶̢̧̖̮̼̝͙͍͎͖̟͈͈͇̘͚͈̗̂̄͐̾̿̍͋̆̉̚ͅn̸̡̙̹̱̯̙͎͈̫͍̗̯̖̘̼̉̎̔̈́̕̚͜ ̷̡̛͉̟̹͕͙͖̺̱͎̗͙̍̾͌͌͑̑͋̓̄̉͆͒̔͒̈́̽̒̇̽̕͜͝o̵̡͇͚̯͈̜̜̤̝͍͔͓͐͊̾͜f̵̧̡̡̨̪͚̹̜͔̹̼̩̮̙͍̣͚̬̹͊̃̿̎̋͑̇͒͂̈́̓̅̇͌̈͘͘͘̕͝ ̴̫͙͙́̎̑̈́̽̂̊̏̆̂͌͋̋͑̽̚ǡ̵̧̢̨̛̩̫͇̰̜̥̩̤̪͚̭͓̠̀͊͗̋͘͘͠ͅͅ ̵̧̜̤̲͔̫̭̹̮͖̺̍̽̈́̐̔̔̎͂̍̂̃̈́̉̐̎͌̄͌̕̚̚͝b̶̛̺̹͍̯͐̇̈́̊͌̾̈̾̈̒͋͘͠͝͝͠i̷̡̧̧̛̺̙̤̥͔̘̼̥̻̜̼͊̈́́́̍̌̇͆̕͜͝͝t̷̛͍̘͔͉̼̫̣̰͒͗̽͒̀̂͆͌͗́͗̿̀̔̊͌̒͘̕͠͝c̷̨̛͕̥̰͈͕͈̘̜̲̟̺̙̯̺̹̪̦͔̖̞͉̈̽̓̈̀̄͘̚͜͠h̶̨̨̧̬̰̥͕͇̳͕̺̫͔͉̺̗̟͇̭̤̦͚̗͔̃̐̈̃́̅̚  
̵̡̬̦̮̺̫̥͙̳̱͍͇̘̎̌͐͗́̃̏͆́̔͑͗̾̍̈͂͌͝͝t̷̢͈͕̤̯̪̗͇̪̣̭̺̭̬̘̥͖̗̹͈̝͇̮̍̄̋̒̒̄̇̇͑̾͐̋̈̚̕͠h̷̨̧̝̣̻̪͔̲̙̘̖̙̮̜͛̈́̋ỉ̸͚̞͙̩̯̦̰̹͇͚̰̾̌͊̂̍̔̈́̂̔̾͂̌̓͘͘͠s̷͎͇̲̋ ̶̨̗̩̮̲̺̹͉̯̫̮͙͚͇̳̜̮̪̱̼̖̭̫͍̩̈́͒̇̌͊͂̊͑͋̃̿̚͝ͅḭ̴͖̱̺̈́̈́̊̔͐̒̓̉s̷̛̭͕̍̐̎́̆͑̾͠͝ ̷̨̢̡̡̛̛̟͍͇͚̮̫̲̟̣̥̞̤̜̱̟͚̤̮̫̈́͛̾͂͆̔̍̓͗̈́̉̿̿̉̍̋̄͑͆̕͘͘͜͜͝ͅy̶̛͇̠͓̯͍̻̗͔̩̱͔̒͋̀̃̊̊̓̽̌͒̂͛̊̈́̐̏̑͐͂͘͝͝͝ͅǒ̵̧̺͉̰͈̞̮̞̗̪͍̞̥̤͎͚̥̺̽̌̃̂̔͐̎̾̈́͋̑̾͘͠͝ͅủ̶̢̧̦̹͔̪͎̺͉͎̠̰̲̦̼̞̾͂͂͛̅̂r̶̨̧̲̝͔̥̄̏̃͐͌̉̽͋̌͘̚͜͝ͅ ̷̛͕̲̥̲͚̤̘̻̹̟̤̂̾̆̌̈́͌̉̽f̴̢̛̛̞̣͍͔̦͖̣͕͇͆̎̎̎̊͑͊̈́͒̑͊̈́͝͝ą̶̧̢̲͖̪̘̥͔̻̖̦̤̪̱̽̄͒̑̿̿̐̊̔͜͝u̷̖̯͐͊͛͐̈́͐̏ḻ̸̛͇̜̜̮͖̱́̅̔̈́̌͑̍̒̈̅̆͐̑̎̔͆̄͐̈́̈̇t̸̡̡̫͍̟͕͙̟̫̗̹̺̰̗̟͓͉̖̼͔̮̩̱̽͜͜ͅ

With little poise for battle and resilience seriously not on his side, Heidegger makes a choice - he would have to accept regret and nightmares in exchange for his own life. A walk back into the safety of the cave quickly becomes a run. The run turns to a man who doesn’t look back - who scales himself back down the mountain and back to the safety of the cabin at its mount.

Eight days have past as he recuperates. Energy slowly eased back unto him via the warmth of the small mountain cottage. Still, he’s not slept. Images plague him every time he attempts to close his eyes, the image of his friends’ twisted corpses tied together and distorted into a YOKAI he’s never seen before. 

But it isn’t just the sights that plague him…but the sounds, too…the voices he hears in the distance in the dead of night. Whispers that edge off the mountain’s face - 

p̴͇̣̏l̷̻̓ḙ̶͑͒a̴̯̲͆̊ș̷̯̾ě̵̼͑ ̸̙͑́d̸̩̎̃o̸͎̒̍n̸̢̹̅'̴̠͙̑̊t̶̪̱͐ ̴̥̯͑l̵̳̕ȇ̷̖̰̈́a̵̳̔̈́v̸͙̿͒e̴̯̊ ̵͔͉͆ụ̵̙͗s̶̤͕̋̐  
̶͙̭́̑ȋ̵̮ ̴͗ͅc̷̢̙̄a̷̹͝n̶͙͋'̴͚̓t̷̬̾͝ ̸̳̫̚͝l̸̡̕ͅḭ̷͋v̸͍̯̌ě̴͙́ ̴̟͆l̵̖̺̚͘i̴̯̣͊͐ķ̵̬̈́e̷͎͛ ̶̢͈̿t̶̨̻͐ẖ̴̈ĩ̴̳͠s̷̪̐ ̷̳͂f̴͉̋o̷͇̽r̸̟͊e̸̟̙͊v̸͉̜͘é̸̪͍r̸̺̥͌̒  
̵̰̋̍ṡ̵̡ŏ̸͕̓l̴͎͐̇d̸͔͆͐ì̵̺̂e̵͍͠r̴̯̅ ̴̡́s̸̖͙͛̇ȯ̶̯̓l̷͚d̴̛̫̱́i̷͙̊e̸̦͉̚r̴̘̍͘ ̷͚̔  
̵͈̈́p̴̟͛ḻ̴̖̽e̶̺̕a̶̜͑s̷͚̏e̶̯̫͂̂


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